If it were not for the hillocks You'd think little of the hills; The rivers would seem tiny If it were not for the rills. If you never saw the brushwood You would under-rate the trees; And so you see the purpose Of such little rhymes as these. God save England, blessed by Fate, So old, yet ever young: The acorn isle from which the great Imperial oak has sprung! And God guard Scotland's kindly soil, The land of stream and glen, The granite mother that has bred A breed of granite men!…
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